Bright Eyes

1. Amidst

He couldn't tell which was more messed up—his family or this place he found himself in yet again.

    Damien was with his friends that night, lounging in a booth of their own. They sipped on drinks, talked things up. Twenty minutes in, he had lost any sense of thrill he should have felt then, lost his appetite to drink as much as he had intended. And if anyone were to ask him why, he would say he didn't know. He found it strange how the blaze of party life, burning bright within him earlier that evening, had been reduced to a small flickering tongue of flame in those first ten minutes, and in the next moments had been snuffed out by an unknown darkness, leaving nothing but a burnt wick in its wake. Yet Damien, despite the lack of spirit, had convinced himself to stay, and had spent the hours since seated on the leather couch, glancing at his phone screen, then at his friends, then at the bottle of beer he occasionally picked up and sipped.

    As the minutes ticked past, he tried to reassure himself, again and again, that he was really, truly happy here—here, where dance beats pounded against the walls, where clouds of strange smoke rose from the breaths of those who held hand-rolled joints—here, the perfect place far away from what he'd vaguely call "imperfect circumstances".

    But, if truth be told, this was just another temporary fix. He knew that. Besides, he was no stranger to this. The only plus side to staying was the sense of relief he found here, and he wanted that. He hated staying at home. Home, that word—could he even call it home? Could he ever consider this exhausting cycle of Mom's apartment to Dad's California mansion and back again over the summer home?

    He shook the thought out of mind. The point of hanging around here with his friends—worth the trouble of sneaking out and sneaking in—was to get away, even for a while. He shouldn't be thinking about them. Not here, not now.

    He looked at his friends in the dim light. One of them, a huge blond boy, said something. Damien heard nothing comprehensible, but he was pretty sure it might had been something stupid or downright hilarious or both. And he was proven right: in an instant, his other friends cracked up, causing one of them to lose his grip on his bottle, spilling beer all over himself. But his friend didn't seem to mind, swearing repeatedly as he threw his head back and laughed like a madman.

    Damien drank some beer, feeling a bit left out, sensing an unseen distance come between him and his friends.

    Even in their company, he found himself alone.

    A distraction, not a cure, he thought to himself. If there was a cure, he'd take it without a doubt. But if a distraction was all he could afford tonight, maybe that would be enough—he'll be all right.

    Just a week more, he assured himself. You'll just have to wait a week more before school starts, and you're back to the dorm again. He took another sip of his drink, watching his friends, wild and boisterous in meaningless conversation. Just a week more.

    Damien's eyes wandered around the party, hoping to find something interesting. Strobe lights pulsated above their heads, a pattern of shadows and illumination over a sea of hedonistic youth. His eyes scanned the strangers on the dance floor, college students celebrating the night in spirited, euphoric motions.

A boy a little older than he was came staggering into Damien's view, reeling across the place, grasping anything and anyone within his reach. Damien watched as the boy performed his strange dance—flinging his arms skyward, his feet pushing him up and off the ground. For a second of a heartbeat, the college-aged stranger, drowned deep in alcohol-induced ecstasy, rose and flew—then crashed facedown on the dirty tiled floor, and turned motionless in his sleep. People nearby moved away from the passed-out figure. Damien chuckled and sipped his drink.